


The Coriolis Effect

by firesign10



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Amnesiac Dean Winchester, Bobby Singer's House, Car Accidents, Caring Sam Winchester, Curtain Fic, Hurt Dean Winchester, Injured Dean Winchester, M/M, Mutual Pining, Parental Bobby Singer, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:47:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27334420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firesign10/pseuds/firesign10
Summary: Art prompt: Dean awakes from being in a coma after a car accident. He sees Sam sitting by his bedside and reaches out to him thinking they're a married couple. Sam is stunned by Dean's revelation and has no idea how to react since this is his deepest desire.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 20
Kudos: 272
Collections: 2020 Supernatural Reversebang Challenge





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2020 SPN/J2 Reverse Bang. I was lucky enough to claim the wonderful art and prompt by [jld71](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jld71), and it was a blast to write. Jen is a fantastic artist, and a pure pleasure to work with. Be sure to check out her art post to admire it all at once!
> 
> Thanks and love to my girls!! Beta by Jerzcaligrl and Theatregirl7299.
> 
> Song lyrics from "Can't Find My Way Home" by Blind Faith. Audio: [Blind Faith](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6jlLBs6YawM&ab_channel=steelyman08).

_Come down off your throne and leave your body alone.  
Somebody must change._

_beep_

_wushhhhhh_

_beep_

_buzz_

Lights pulsed red and green. Monitors beeped and dinged. Gray and white machines whooshed and gurgled mysteriously.

Nothing else in the room moved.

Sam sat next to Dean's bedside, watching as tubes and machines kept his brother alive. It was an alien sight, seeing his strong, energetic brother so still. Dean looked unnaturally pale, his skin a ghostly white except for the dark purple bruising, the red lines of half-healed sutured wounds. His freckles stood out starkly on that pale canvas. His eyes were motionless under the delicate, thin skin of his eyelids, so thin Sam could see the tracings of blue veins. Only the utter white of the bandages gave Dean the semblance of any normal coloration by contrast.

Resting his elbows on his knees, Sam sat leaning toward Dean. He didn't dare look away. What if it was only his steady focus, his concentration, that was keeping Dean alive? He couldn't risk any fluctuation causing his brother to fail.

_"Mr. Horowitz, I have to tell you that Dean's condition is precarious. He's had some serious injuries. Three broken ribs, a fractured ulna, a dislocated shoulder. Numerous cuts and abrasions. He managed to avoid any internal injuries, but then there's the matter of his head injury. The blow to the head has caused some swelling of his brain. We're watching it carefully, but he may require surgery to relieve the swelling if it doesn't stop shortly. We can't be sure what the ramifications of such a blow might be..."_

Blah blah blah. Sam tuned them out. Dean had a head like a bowling ball. He would be just fine. He was going to wake up soon and he'd still be _Dean._

He had to be. There wasn't any other option that Sam could consider without losing his mind.

Sam hadn't even called Bobby yet. He didn't dare leave Dean, and cell phones were forbidden inside the ICU. He ran a hand through his greasy hair. God, he probably smelled, he hadn't showered since...since the accident.

_Driving down the road, laughing and talking about how the fuckin' poltergeist had been pretty frisky. They were glad to have another case behind them--ready to find a motel and have some beers and something to eat._

_"Hey, maybe we could get Mexican," Sam said. "I could go for tacos. Maybe a burrito."_

_"Fuck you and your Mexican. I gotta sleep in the same room with you. We're not recreating the night of a thousand farts," Dean scoffed._

_Sam had to laugh. "Fine, fine, you pick. Man, I'm starving."_

_"Me too, I could--"_

_The screech of shredding metal filled the air._

__

Dean had taken the brunt of it, just like the big brother he was. The other vehicle hit the driver's door on the Impala and spun them out. Sam had gotten thrown around and had bruises and cuts, but Dean...Dean had been silent and bloody once the Impala had stopped spinning.

Sam had forgotten his hunger. His sole focus had been Dean.

Now, sitting in the stark, white hospital room, Sam reached out, taking hold of his brother's limp hand. He squeezed it gently, rubbing his thumb over Dean's knuckles.

"Please, Dean. Please don't leave me." The words caught in Sam's throat. "I love you, Dean. I need you. You're my big brother. My family."

He bowed his head, praying silently.

The hand he was holding moved.

"Dean? Dean, can you hear me?" Sam's head whipped up, intently watching Dean. Dark lashes fluttered, and Sam could see a sliver of green eyes under swollen lids. Beeps and buzzers went off, alerting the medical staff to Dean's conscious state.

Dean gave a little grunt. Still holding onto Sam's hand, he brought it up to his mouth and--

he _kissed_ it.

Sam sat in shock, both that Dean was waking up and at what he'd done. Before anything more could happen, doctors and nurses were spilling into the room, and Sam was promptly ejected.

He waited impatiently in one of the 'family waiting rooms' that were situated in the ICU wing. He knew the doctors were poking, prodding, and questioning Dean. As they left, Sam caught up with Dr. Makavoy, the one he'd spoken with the most often.

"Excuse me, Dr. Makavoy, how is he? Is he going to be all right? I mean, he woke up, so--he's going to be okay, right?"

The doctor drew Sam to the side of the hallway.

"It's fantastic that he woke up, yes. He seems lucid, which is also a good sign. He still has a lot of healing to do, and we'll want to run new CAT scans and neuro tests, but yes, Sam. Everything is looking much more positive than it was earlier." Dr. Makavoy smiled.

The relief that cascaded through Sam's body left him weak in the knees. Dr. Makavoy looked at him sternly.

"Now it's time to take care of yourself, Sam. Go eat something, get some rest. Maybe, uh, take a shower. Rest up so you can be there for him. He'll need you."

"Yeah, yeah, sure." Sam ran a hand through his hair. "Oh, listen, will he--would he have some, like... amnesia or confusion?"

"Oh yes, that's very likely. Traumas often induce amnesia of the actual incident, at the very least, and often up to several hours beforehand. Also confusion, yes, as the brain recovers, things can get muddled up. But with rest and care, most of that should settle out." He looked curiously at Sam. "Did something happen?"

"No, no, just wondering so I'll be ready, you know?" Sam smiled and gave the doctor a thumbs up.

"Okay then--go on and take care of yourself, so you'll be able to help your brother." Dr. Makavoy clapped Sam on the shoulder and went off down the hallway.

Sam leaned against the white tile wall.

_What was going on in Dean's head?_

Dean Winchester's Journal

_The hospital therapist suggested starting a journal so I can work out the issues from my accident. It's not my kind of thing, but whatever._

_My name is Dean Winchester, and I'm 32 years old. I can't really tell anyone what my job is, because most people won't believe it._

_I hunt monsters._

_Monsters. Yup. Werewolves, ghosts, pixies, selkies, whatever. Vampires. Chupacabras. You name it, I hunt and kill it._

_Of course, most everyone would say I'm crazy. But they don't know all the stuff I know, they haven't seen what I've seen. I've spent my whole life so far doing this. Saving people, hunting things._

_I used to hunt with my dad, John. He taught me everything he knew about hunting and weapons and lore, and we hunted together until a fucking demon took him out. I killed that sucker later though. Ha._

_So after that, I hunted by myself for a while. Sometimes I'd join forces with another hunter or two, go after something really big. It can suck to hunt alone, not have anyone watching your back. Shit goes sideways, you're dead._

_Then I met Sam. I don't really remember exactly how or where we met. I think I've always kinda known him; we've run into each other a lot through the years, growing up. See, I had a super-bad concussion recently, and a lot of my memories are kinda shot at the moment. That's where this journal comes in. If I write about what I do remember, they figure it should help what I don't to come back._

_Whatever._

_Anyway, I ran into Sam after not seeing him for a couple of years. Did he grow up! Man, you want to see a tall drink of water--that's Sam. I'm six one, but he's like six five. And built! Shit! He is RIPPED._

_And hung. hehehehe I should know._

_So Sam and me, we're more than just hunting partners now. We're_ partner- _partners. We hunt together, we fuck each other, we sleep together._

_I love him._

_That's not something I say a lot, but it's true. I love him. I love him so much that we got married. Just him and me at one of those little chapels that are all over Vegas. He wouldn't let me get one with an Elvis impersonator though._

_So now, he's my husband. Sam Winchester. Man, I like the sound of that._

"Did you tell Bobby we're coming?" Dean looked out the passenger window of the Impala. They had just switched driving at the last rest stop.

"Yes, Dean. I texted him before we left the hospital." Sam glanced over at Dean, seeing the fatigue on his face. Dean was driving fine, but he could only handle a couple of hours at a time. He still tired easily, and he got headaches from staring at the road, so Sam was doing the lion's share of the driving. He knew concussions well enough to know this was how it went. The only thing that helped was rest.

"Hope he's making chili. I love his chili." Dean made smacking noises and patted his stomach. Sam had to laugh.

"So you remember his chili, huh?"

"Dude, I remember a lot. I just don't remember the accident." Dean mused a moment. "Well, okay, a lot of stuff in the past has gaps, but I'm not worried. I know the important stuff. We got my girl here, we're going to see Bobby and his chili, we're hunters. And I'm right here where I wanna be with my sweetheart." Dean winked at Sam, who felt a hot flush rise in his cheeks. Dean reached out and took Sam's right hand off the wheel and kissed it, just like he had back in the hospital. "Maybe we should find a motel on the way, hey, Sammy? Make the beast with two backs? Get our ya-yas out?" He leered, waggling his eyebrows. "I figure it's been a while, with the accident and all."

"Uh, no, I want to just get to Bobby's right now. Besides, they didn't okay you for anything, you know, strenuous." Sam hoped the excuse would hold for a bit. He wanted to discuss the situation with Bobby before telling Dean the truth. What if it fucked up his recovery? How could Sam let something happen without Dean knowing the truth? The whole situation was a complex mess. Sam felt out of his depth in so many ways, just floundering along by the seat of his pants.

"Fine, fine. Just remember it wasn't my pecker that got a concussion. I bet 'Little Dean' is working just fine." Dean looked back out the window, humming along to Blind Faith's "Can't Find My Way Home".

_Shit._

It was difficult enough that Dean thought they were husbands. Dean was affectionate and a little handsy--there'd been a couple of ass grabs while they loaded the car. Since Sam wasn't sure that destroying his illusion was the correct course of action, he was stuck trying to nicely fend off Dean's advances and not end up in an unfortunate situation that they would all regret later.

The real kicker was, however, the secret Sam had buried deep down inside himself. He'd mostly gotten accustomed to carrying it around, hidden in the back of his heart. Dean didn't know--Sam had never told him, never even hinted at it.

The secret was that Sam was completely in love with Dean. So, Dean thinking they were husbands now? Well...it was a dream that Sam had never expected to experience in real life. Yet, here they were. But despite Dean's current mindset, Sam couldn't act on it. Dean was impaired right now. There could be no true consent. For all Sam knew, if Dean woke up tomorrow and remembered that they were brothers, he'd be horrified if anything had happened. As tempting as it was, Sam could not in good conscience take advantage of the situation.

Sam figured that somewhere down the long road of Winchester life, his love and admiration of his gorgeous, glorious big brother had crossed wires with the desire to have someone all his own. He wanted someone to love and be loved by, in every possible way; emotionally, physically, filling him up so that the awful empty places deep inside were eradicated. Who could this possibly be, except Dean? Dean, who'd cared for him, raised him, taught him everything, loved him unconditionally from day one.

Dean.

No longer did Sam want to copy Dean, aspiring to emulate him. Now Sam wanted to touch him, run his hands over the fair, freckled skin and meaty muscles. He wanted to kiss those full, pink lips, lick the pert, pink nipples he saw every time Dean walked around shirtless. Sam wanted to mouth at the prominent bulge in Dean's black boxer briefs, squeeze the sweet globes the black fabric defined as it stretched over his ass.

Wrong. Sick. Twisted. Yeah, Sam used all of those words, and more, on himself. Managing to survive an adolescence full of brother-inspired boners, Sam finally was able to wrestle with his longing, wrap it up in chains, and swallow it down into his deepest depths. He'd dated women, had sex with them. He'd even lived with Jessica, managing all the while to deny how much she was like Dean. He hunted with Dean, got drunk with him, and watched him go out to fuck like a satyr on the loose. Once Dean was gone, often for the night, Sam would go into the bathroom or spread out on the bed and jerk off with visions of Dean's green eyes staring into his, Dean's fat cock rutting against his, Dean's delicious mouth on his.

"Dude! Watch the road, man!" Dean's voice was sharp, and Sam realized he was half on the shoulder.

"Sorry, sorry." Sam corrected their course.

"I know, you're busy daydreaming about me fucking you silly," Dean snickered. "Or maybe you fucking me silly. I really don't care. We could flip a coin."

"No one is fucking anyone at Bobby's!" Sam stated sternly.

Dean rolled his eyes.

"Prude."

Sam was just glad his jacket hid the swelling in his jeans.

Finally they arrived at Singer's Salvage Yard, pulling up to Bobby's house as the sun was sinking, painting the sky orange-red with an indigo finish. Bobby apparently heard the Impala's growl, coming out to greet them with beers in his hand.

"Good to see you, boys." He handed them each a beer, and they took the obligatory swig to prove they weren't possessed. Bobby's greeting had long included a swig of holy water in the brew, and the use of real silver utensils at the table.

"Come on in. Chili will be ready in a minute." He led the way into the untidy, but cozy kitchen. Dean did a fist pump behind Bobby's back, and Sam snickered.

"What?" Bobby looked at them, raising one bushy gray-brown eyebrow.

"I was betting on you making chili," Dean explained with a smug look on his face.

"So how you boys doing? Dean, how you feeling?" Bobby took the lid off of a large steaming pot on the stove and stirred. Sam inhaled the spicy fragrance of chili and felt warm down to his toes.

"Healing okay, Bobby. Have this stupid cast on for a couple more weeks. Ribs are still sore, but doing all right." Dean took off his jacket and sat down at the battered wooden kitchen table. Like everything at Bobby's house, it wasn't necessarily pretty, but it was sturdy and comfortable. Sam sat at another chair with a sigh of relief. Despite being in the car all day, it felt good to be sitting but not moving, or for Sam, with legs fully outstretched.

"How about your noggin?" Bobby gestured to Dean's head with the chili spoon, leaving little tomatoey drips on the floor. 

"He really is pretty good," answered Sam. "Doesn't remember the accident, but he knows who he is and all about hunting." _And that I'm apparently his husband._

"Yeah, some gaps here and there, but nothing major." Dean nudged Sam with his good arm. "As long as I didn't forget this one, I'm good. Right, honey?" He winked at Sam.

"What?" Bobby looked at Sam, question marks in his eyes.

"Nothing. Hey Dean, why don't you go up and shower first while the chili finishes? Just don't forget to put the plastic wrap around your cast." Sam gave Bobby a subtle shake of his head to forestall any more questions at the moment.

"Yeah, that sounds good. I am kinda achy still. Don't eat it all without me!" Dean got up, grabbed his duffle, and headed upstairs.

Sam and Bobby waited until they heard the bathroom door shut.

"What in tarnation was that 'honey' business?" asked Bobby. "What aren't you telling me, Sam?"

"He's good, all things considered. Just, for some reason, he thinks..." Sam rubbed his face with one hand. "Bobby, he thinks I'm his husband, not his brother."

Bobby's jaw dropped. "He _what?_ "

Sam sighed. "Thinks I'm his--"

"Yeah, yeah, I heard that." Bobby took off his trucker's hat and scratched his head. "Dammit, son, why didn't ya tell him the truth already?"

Sam sighed heavily. "I didn't know if it would be bad for him. The doctors cautioned against any major shocks, said it could cause some PTSD or breakdown or something. I figured finding out who he thought was his husband was really his brother instead might qualify for a major shock."

"Well, ya got a point there." Bobby plopped down into the chair opposite Sam's and took a big swig of beer. Putting it down with a disgusted face, he got back up and went over to the cabinet that housed his 'bar', basically a collection of cheap whiskeys, empty pint mason and jam jars, and a lone bottle of Bailey's with dust on it. He fished out a bottle of Old Grand-Dad. "Fuck it, this calls for the hard stuff."

He grabbed a couple of jam jars and filled them half full of amber liquid, handing one to Sam. They toasted with a clink of glasses. Sam drank his half down, eyes popping wide as the harsh booze scoured his throat. He coughed.

"Smooth."

"Fuck you," Bobby answered with a laugh. "Now, tell me all about the accident and this husband business."

Dean Winchester's Journal

__

_I hadn't thought about this journal for a couple of weeks, but I was unpacking here at Bobby's and it turned up. Might as well update it, don't have a lot going on right now._

_We're at Bobby's until my arm is finished healing. I know I've known Bobby forever. He's probably more of a dad to me than my real dad was. I feel bad saying that, because I loved my dad, but he was not an easy man to grow up with, as far as I can recall. Most of my memories seem to be of training and hunting. It wasn't what most people would call normal, but it was what I had._

_Visiting Bobby was always a chance to relax a little. Dad would go off on a long hunt and I'd be here, going to school for a few months, learning stuff about cars and engines from Bobby. He taught me a lot of hunting stuff too, sure, but not in the shove-it-down-your-throat way Dad did. My memories of those years is pretty patchy, but what I do remember is consistent. I think I saw Sam here sometimes too--there's some vague scenes where I see a dark-haired boy following me around a lot._

_So here we are for a few weeks. Sam is happy because he can drown himself in all the old books and lore Bobby has gathered over the years. When I say he has a lot of old books, I mean like knee-deep piles. Sam's a bookworm, so I'll see him at meals!_

_That's okay, Bobby always has a lot of stuff for me to work on. Car repairs, cars to salvage for parts, cars to rebuild. Any other engine stuff that people bring to him, from household shit to farm equipment. It's a good break for me too. Good to catch our breath from the hunts and being out on the road._

_Only thing weird is, well... Sammy won't let me touch him. I mean, I understand no fucking here--neither of us are quiet, and Bobby doesn't need to hear that. But damn, we're talking no shower sex, no blow jobs, not even a hand job. I don't know what the fuck is up with him, but my balls are turning blue big-time. He won't talk about it either. It's messing with my head as well as my nads, because...fuck, I love him, and I can't stand the thought that maybe...maybe..._

_Maybe I'm not what he wants anymore._

_There, I said it. No one's ever going to read this thing anyway. Just, it sucks to actually put that into words, like it's more real somehow._

_I can't hunt without him. I can't live without him._

_Please, Sammy, can't believe I'm the one to say this, but--please talk to me._


	2. Chapter 2

Sam looked up from the Phoenician text he was studying when Bobby sat down across the desk from him.

"What's up?" Sam rubbed his achy eyes. How long had he been sitting there reading, anyway?

"Sam, you got to deal with this." Bobby's expression was grim. "Dean senses something is up. I don't know if you've noticed, but he's getting quieter and quieter, and that ain't Dean. What's your plan?"

Sam exhaled and pushed his chair away from the desk. 

"My _plan,_ Bobby? You mean about telling him I'm not his husband, and then watching him fall apart?"

"You don't know that that will happen! He could be just fine. Or maybe a little disappointed, sure, but he ain't _losing_ you. You're just...different than he thought." Bobby's mouth was a grim line, and his blue eyes bored into Sam.

Sam knew Bobby was right. He'd known it all along, that he would have to have this talk with Dean. He'd just been dragging his feet as long as possible about it. Dean was happy, working away in the yard, eating decent food. They were sleeping in the same bed, but that really wasn't all that new; they'd done it all the time growing up, and even as adults sometimes. There was a reassurance about the world being okay when they could hear each other breathing, sense each other's warmth. After the dark and cold and danger of a hunt, it was an unspoken habit to share the motel's queen bed.

Sam just hadn't let Dean start anything. It was more and more clearly bothering Dean, judging by him turning his back to Sam in bed, and the fewer and terser words exchanged during the day. Sam kept bringing up Dean's arm and ribs and his need to heal, but he knew Dean had fucked around more with worse injuries.

The worst part, if Sam was going to be totally honest with himself, was how much Sam really did want to touch Dean. He wanted Dean to touch him. Wanted kisses, embraces, feeling the warmth of each other's breath. The thought of Dean's hands on Sam's skin was electrifying, and the reason for his daily jacking off in the shower. Sam couldn't even bring himself to imagine feeling Dean's cock push inside him, or feeling his own cock slide into Dean's perfect ass. That way lay madness, and explosive, messy orgasms.

_"Come on, baby. Kiss me."_

_Lying together in bed, facing each other. Dean's face so close Sam could count every tiny freckle. His just-brushed, minty breath puffing on Sam's skin._

_"No, Dean, I just want to go to sleep. I'm tired."_

_A hurt look in Dean's eyes, a wrinkle between his eyebrows._

_"Sammy, we've been here a week. Haven't had so much as a good night kiss from you. What's going on?"_

_"Nothing, I...Dean, I got really scared when you were hurt this last time." Truth. "I just want to let you finish recovering, okay?" Kind of the truth..._

_A sigh. "Okay. Just--can I have a little kiss, anyway? Please?"_

_A kiss. Doable. Just a kiss._

_Leaning forward, lips pursed. Pressed together, Dean's lips so warm and soft. Like heaven._

_Can't pull away. It's the start of everything he's ever wanted. More..._

_No! Must stop--can't let him know._

_"Goodnight, Dean."_

_Soft sigh. "Goodnight, Sammy."_

"Sam? You still there, son?" Shit. Bobby was still staring at him, although there was something a little...knowing in his eyes now. How much had Sam's face given away during that little space-out? Or was he just that easy to read, his love and desire for Dean bleeding out from his pores, creeping into his expression? Sam rubbed his face and pasted on a smile.

"Yeah, yeah, just more tired from this Phoenician stuff than I thought. You're absolutely right Bobby. I have to do it. In fact, I'll go do it right now." _Rip that band-aid off, Samuel. Don't worry if it takes some skin with it._

Bobby stood up and scratched his chest.

"He's out back, working on that yard tractor that came in yesterday. Maybe ya just want to make sure he doesn't have anything heavy in his hand first." He walked away, and Sam's head dropped into his hands.

_Shit._

Dean Winchester's Journal

_  
Fuck._

_Fuck. Fuck. Fuck._

_I feel like the whole fucking world is fucking upside down, and I'm just hanging on by my fingernails._

_I was out in the salvage yard working yesterday afternoon when Sam came out, said he needed to talk to me. I braced myself--not gonna lie, I thought, shit, this is it. He's gonna say he's leaving me. He's done. I thought I was gonna throw up._

_In a way, he did leave me. He just isn't going anywhere._

_He told me the accident messed up my head. The concussion and the brain swelling short-circuited some wires in my melon. I asked him what was going on, just spit it out._

_He said he isn't my husband._

_He's my_ brother. __

_I just stared at him. I heard him say it, but the words just kinda rolled around inside my skull and didn't make any sense._

_He said it again, like I was stupid. I guess I was._

__Then _I threw up._

_He must have left after that, because I haven't seen him since. Bobby said he'd be back in a while, that this was kind of a mess for Sam too, and he needed some space and time. Bobby made dinner like always, but I couldn't eat. After that, we sat on the porch and drank._

_A lot._

_Once I got over the hangover today, I asked Bobby if it was really true. He said it was._

_He went to his desk and pulled some pictures out of a drawer. Told me to sit down on the sofa and we looked at them together._

__

It was like straight out of a Twilight Zone episode. There was Dad, and Mom, and me. 

And there was Sam. The dark-haired boy, the one who shows up in my memories here and there? It was Sam all along.

Little chubby cheeks and dimples, dark hair in a bowl cut. Looking like a giraffe, all long legs. Shooting bottles off a fence. All grown up with a pretty blonde girl, Jessica, Bobby called her. She was killed by the same thing that killed my mom. After that, Sam joined me as a hunter full-time.

I asked Bobby how the fuck I could have thought he was my husband. He said the amnesia and trauma led to something called confabulation. It's where your brain tries to fill in the blanks, and so it just...makes shit up. So I half-remembered Sam, but I couldn't totally remember, and my brain filled in the gap by making him my husband. It's like the frog DNA that they used to finish sequencing the dinosaur DNA in Jurassic Park.

I couldn't talk. I just stared at those pictures over and over. It was true. He really is my brother.

Only...I didn't stop loving him like my husband. My brain understands, but my heart doesn't. I still want to hold him, kiss him, keep him safe. I still want to fuck him like there was no tomorrow, want him to hold me down and ream my ass. I remember _that shit happening. Was it all a dream? How can I still feel like this when he's my brother?_

_Am I just some sick perv? Was it the accident that did this to me, or was I like this before?  
God knows I can't ask Bobby that. I guess the only one I can ask is Sam._

Dean's shock over the revelation that they were in fact brothers was the last straw for Sam, overwhelmed with his confusion about his own feelings. He had to get away, find some quiet and try to resolve things in his head. Sam took off in the Impala, driving for miles and miles, fields and asphalt streaming by while his mind was blank. As evening drew close, he found a cheap motel where he stopped for the night. It was nothing that he wasn't used to; same shitty furniture, same ugly decor, but he'd vastly underestimated the solitary feeling of traveling alone. There was no one sitting shotgun, no one jabbering in the motel room, no one using up all the hot water, no one to watch crappy television with.

He sat in a nearby diner for hours, reading on his phone long after he'd finished eating, just to have people around. Eventually he ordered pie and coffee. The pecan pie was homemade and delicious, but he could only take a few bites of it. It was meaningless without Dean there to exclaim over its flavor, snarfing it down in large bites, waving a forkful in Sam's face.

The motel was too quiet. The single queen bed was too hard. The parking lot lights were too bright, the room ones too yellowed. The cold water was too warm, the hot water too cool.

The room was too empty.

He slept poorly, tossing and turning, the absence of his brother's breathing echoing in the air. Finally giving up at six a.m., Sam returned to the diner for breakfast. Fortunately, it was a different server's shift, so he didn't stand out as being the weird guy who was there so late the night before. He managed to eat most of his egg white and veggie omelet and bacon (no one stole pieces from him), and he drank a small pot of coffee before returning to the motel room. Packing his things up quickly and efficiently, he was back on the road by seven thirty.

More driving. This time, his brain worked in the void, sifting and sorting his thoughts and feelings, trying them out in different configurations.

Dean was his brother.

He loved Dean.

He loved Dean in a not-brotherly way.

Dean loved him.

Was Dean's love really like a husband's, or was it the love for a brother that was twisted by injury?

The only real answer to that lay with Dean.

Sam drove some more, now taking a circuitous route back to Bobby's. 

What if Dean _did_ love Sam like that?

Didn't that actually work out, in a strange way?

Sam slowed down, parking the Impala on the side of the country road. He got out and walked into the field of wildflowers banking the road. They were pretty and rambunctious and untrammeled, blooming wherever the fuck they wanted. No one was forcing them to fit into rigid little plots or garden rows.

What if Dean _did_ love Sam more, and Sam loved Dean more? Did it matter if they did? 

He walked back to the Impala and slid back into the driver's seat. It was time to go back to Bobby's. It was time to face Dean.

* * *

Dean Winchester's Journal

_I sat on the front porch all day, first with coffee, then with beer. Now it's me and a jelly jar of Jim Beam. Bobby sat here for a while this evening too, but now he's walking around the yard. He didn't say a thing, but it felt good to have him sitting here, just keeping me company._

_Bet he never thought he'd have this kinda soap opera going on under his roof. What a fuckin' mess. This is why I avoid chick flick moments in the first place. And chick flicks, for that matter._

_I tried to think about what I'm going to do, but I just don't know yet. All I know is that I want to be with Sam. I guess if I end up having to simply be brothers with him, I'll try it. Some Sam is better than no Sam. But...shit, it's going to be super weird._

Bobby tromped out onto the front porch, a cold beer in each hand. He handed one to Sam, sat down in the battered wooden rocking chair, and drank from his own beer.

"So, how did your little walkabout go?" he asked, eyes fixed on the horizon.

Sam sighed. The beer bottle felt good against his sweaty hands, chilly on his hot skin. 

"Not great. Only thing I learned was that I'm not the best at being alone."

Bobby snorted. "Well, damn, son. 'Course not. When you ever _been_ alone? Not counting that two weeks in Flagstaff." It was his turn to sigh. "I know your daddy left you alone a bunch when he would take Dean on a hunt, but that wasn't _real_ alone. You knew someone was coming back."

Sam knew what Bobby meant. This...this time had been different. If he left Dean, he'd be alone in a whole new way. No one at his back, no one by his side...ever. Sam didn't harbor any fantasies about 'someone' being out there for him. It wasn't how a hunter's life worked, much less a Winchester's. Considering how he'd dealt with being alone for twenty-four hours, he didn't anticipate the rest of his life going well.

"What am I gonna do, Bobby? I can't be with him the way he wants, but I don't know if he can be with me the way I can handle."

"What way is that?" Bobby rocked slowly, the chair creaking under the movement. 

Sam gave him a puzzled look. "I can't--he thinks he's my _husband,_ Bobby. He wants to have sex with me. That's all kinds of wrong."

Bobby was silent for a few minutes. "Yeah, you're right. It is. But I have to ask--and God knows I hate to ask this--is that really a problem for you, Sam? I've seen the looks you give him when you think no one sees you. There's been no one for you since Jessica, not counting a couple of 'hunter's special' encounters." He rubbed his eyes with one hand. "Boy, last thing I wanna do is get into you-all's relationship. But you can't deny, it's always been a lot more that just bein' brothers in the first place."

He got up, his beer bottle now empty. "I'm goin' inside, wanna put my feet up. Going to get into bed and put my headphones on to listen to some music. Probably wouldn't hear if a brass band marched by. You might want to think about things a bit." He put a warm hand on Sam's shoulder. "You know a hunter's life ain't...well, it ain't normal. And that's okay."

The screen door rattled shut behind him.

Sam took a drink, his mind spinning. Goddamn, Bobby couldn't be saying-- _could_ he? Was he really advocating for incest? What the hell? 

He sat there thinking until his beer was long gone and the sun was below the horizon, leaving just a streak of vivid color beneath the black of the encroaching night.

Epilogue

Nat looked both ways before crossing the road. Avon, North Carolina, wasn't that big a town, but sometimes the beach traffic on the Outer Banks could be fairly steady on the single lane road. It was pretty quiet today, so she took her time walking across the street, and then the gravel parking lot of Betty's Bait Shop.

Nat loved these mornings at the beach. The sky was cornflower blue, or at least what she imagined cornflower blue looked like. Sometimes there were puffy white clouds, or those streaky, feathery clouds, but not today. Seagulls cawed and squabbled, fighting each other for food before soaring away noisily. The breeze carried the rich, salty smell of the Atlantic Ocean in from the beach, permeating the air.

The battered brass bell clattered when she pushed the glass door of the Bait Shop open. There wasn't a Betty anymore, although the name had stuck. Betty's son Howie ran the store now. He was like 'Grandpa' age, Nat thought, at least to her fourteen-year-old eyes. Gray-white hair cut short-ish, a red face, sharp blue eyes behind silver wire spectacles. He favored thin cotton short sleeve shirts that buttoned down the front and cargo shorts. In between sales and chatting with customers, Howie would play checkers with her while they talked about whatever came to mind. Her parents had known Howie for years from their annual summer vacations here. When Nat needed some time away from her boisterous, younger twin brothers, she was allowed to come here, under Howie's avuncular eye, for a break.

"Hey there, Natalie," Howie greeted her. She rolled her eyes. 

"It's Nat, Howie. Natalie is for girls who wear flouncy dresses and giggle about boys." Nat pulled a chair up to the table with the checkerboard on it. Her jersey tank top and denim cut-offs clearly showed she was not a Natalie, she thought, no flounces for her. Her light brown hair was long enough for braids down to her shoulders, and she'd already tanned from the last two weeks under the North Carolina sun.

"All right, all right, Nat. Did you bring your A-game today?" Howie chortled. "I'm ready for a winning streak!"

"Big talk," Nat teased him. "I'm red today." They alternated red and black every day, just to be fair.

"I got some fish coming in soon, so we'll have to take a break then." The Bait Shop was split into two parts. One half was bait, fishing gear, snacks and drinks, with a couple of racks of hats, T-shirts, sunglasses, small souvenirs, and flip-flops. The other half was one big open space with long tables lined up. Gray tubs sat on the tables; these were the fish tubs. Fishermen would bring in the catch from their boats in the early afternoon, sorting them into the tubs by type. In turn, the residents of the rental houses came by to select the fresh fish for their dinner. 

Nat and Howie played half a dozen games, pausing whenever a customer came in. They stopped for lunch, eating sandwiches that Howie made with white bread, bologna, and mustard, along with potato chips and cold sodas. Nat loved this lunch; her parents were all about whole grains and vegetarian food, and sometimes a girl just wanted a plain bologna sandwich.

A couple of customers came in after lunch, just as Howie was dealing with the first of the fishermen.

"I can help them," said Nat. She'd done it before a couple of times; the register wasn't that hard to work, and she knew where everything was. 

The two men went right to the drinks and snacks area, where they stood making their choices. The one with light brown hair was tall and broad-shouldered, but the dark-haired one was even taller, with long legs. They chatted between themselves, and Nat thought they must be joking around with each other because they kept bumping shoulders and poking at each other and laughing.

Eventually they came up to the register with their selections, and Nat finally saw their faces. For the first time, she found herself tongue-tied in front of males. Both men were super handsome, like the models in Nat's older sister's fashion magazines. The not-much-shorter one had green eyes and strong, even features that were softened by freckles. The taller one had mysterious eyes, kind of exotically slanted, as well as high cheekbones and a kind smile. 

"Are you all right?" asked the taller one gently, as if Nat was about to faint or something.

Nat felt flustered at being caught staring.

"Um, yeah, yeah, sorry. Thanks, I'm fine." Nat rang in their purchases. "Will that be all? We're getting in our fish for the day over there."

"That's it for today, thanks." The green-eyed man said with a smile, making the skin at the corner of his eyes crinkle cutely. The dark-haired man looked at his friend and when he smiled, Nat saw deep dimples in his cheeks. She wished she could take a picture of them; no one would believe how two such gorgeous guys could just appear in Betty's Bait Shop in Avon, North Carolina.

She watched them walk out, noticing the bow legs on the shorter man, like he'd been a cowboy or something. As they exited, the taller man slipped his arm around his friend's--oh, his boyfriend's--waist. Nat sighed. So sweet.

When Howie was done with the fishermen, he came over after washing up. Nat told him about the two men, omitting how handsome she thought they were.

"Oh, that's the Winchesters. They live right across Pamlico Sound, but they have a fishing cottage here in Avon. Been living here a few years now. Strapping lads, they are, eh, Nat?" He winked at her, and she couldn't help a small smile, her cheeks flushed a little. "Sorry, though, they only got eyes for each other. Got married soon as it was legal, they did. I tell you what, anyone against gay marriage ought to see those boys and how much they love each other."

"So they're regular residents? What do they do?" Nat was curious what the handsome men found to do in this quiet little town.

"Well, Dean--that's the shorter one, although he's a tall man in his own right. He runs a repair shop and garage. Fixes cars, boats, all kinds of small engines. Man is a wizard with his hands. And the other one, Sam--well, Nat, you just met S.F. Winchester, the author. Writes all those spooky-type books, you know, full of monsters and such? He lives and writes right here." Howie looked over his spectacles at the revolving rack that held comics and paperbacks. "I think we got a couple of his titles right here."

Nat gasped. She loved those books! 

"I've read four or five of those! Oh man, I coulda asked for an autograph!"

Howie chuckled. "They'll be in again. You'll get your chance."

Dean Winchester's Journal

_We walked on the beach this afternoon. I closed the shop, and Sam turned off his laptop._

_I don't know how far we walked--just going down the beach, watching the waves. We always walk where the little wavelets can roll up and catch our feet, and the sand is cool and hard-packed. I laugh every time at the silly little sandpipers, running down to the water, then scurrying away before they get caught by the waves._

_Sam was laughing and smiling too. The ocean breeze always makes his hair fly around, unless he has it in one of those silly man-buns. Today it was loose, and I loved just seeing it be free. Like him._

_Like us._

_We're retired now. I thought you could only do that when you were old, but turns out you can retire whenever you damn well please. We field the occasional call, like if someone has a question, but only a couple of people have our number. Once in a great while, something in the newspaper will catch our eye. Sam will look at me, or I'll look at him, and we throw a few things in the Impala, take a little drive. Pretty much just salt and burns--pretty good number of unsettled spirits in a place with a lot of history like this. But that's it._

_I have plenty of work, now that people know I can fix their stuff. And Sammy, well...he took everything we ever did and lived through, and turned it into a bunch of novels. Best sellers, they turned out to be, right up there with King and Barker. His only rule to the publishers was no tours, no pictures, no intrusion into his life. The first couple of books, it was hard to make them heed that, but now, they'll pretty much kiss his feet to hang onto him._

_So fucking proud of my Sammy._

_We're married for real now. When we left Bobby's way back then, we drove to Vegas, stopped at one of those little chapels they got everywhere. Sammy wouldn't let me get an Elvis impersonator, what a killjoy! But we stayed a couple of nights at one of the fancy hotels, and that was a blast._

_Wandered around the country a bit, doing some hunting while we figured out where to live. Not too hot, not too cold. Ocean was a plus, turns out we love the beach. Sure, we get the occasional hurricane, but we manage._

_Who knew life could be so good._

_I still get glimmers now and then, odd bits of memories returning--just little freeze-frames and snippets. It doesn't matter, though, because I know who Sammy is, and who I am. And we're happy._

_I was going through a couple of old duffles from the hunting days, cleaning out the garage, and I found this notebook. Wow, brought back those days...the confusion, the turmoil._

_The love. Even then, we both loved._

_Seems only fair that I write one last time in it. Bring it to a close, you know?_

_And now, it's done._

_You are the reason I've been waiting all these years.  
Somebody holds the key._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Confabulation: to fill in gaps in memory by fabrication  
> A major characteristic of brain-damaged patients is the tendency to confabulate—to hide and dissemble about their damage.  
> — Peter R. Breggin, Merriam-Webster English Dictionary
> 
> "Life finds a way."  
> \-- Ian Malcom, _Jurassic Park_


End file.
